


Tea and Sympathy

by openhearts



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-17
Updated: 2008-10-17
Packaged: 2018-10-09 07:43:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10407216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openhearts/pseuds/openhearts
Summary: Originally posted at LiveJournal





	

He was talking, finally, but she knew it still wasn’t really to her. He was just spewing the experience of it all. 

 

He was haggard, skin pale, eyes darkened. They sat facing each other on his couch, each with a leg curled up between them and the other foot still on the floor. It had started with a conversation – common comfort. 

 

He reached out to her, one hand gently grasping her wrist. He murmured an awkward “thank you.” 

 

For coming when he’d called, for understanding what he needed when he couldn’t voice it. She touched the side of his face, her small hand light against his skin. He enveloped her hand with his, turned and breathed in her skin. He kissed her palm, closed his eyes into it. His hand slid up her arm and closed around her shoulder, pulled her to him. She reached into his arms, letting herself be pulled across the sofa, dissolve into his painful, needful embrace.

 

His larger frame curled around her, his head buried against her small shoulder. He needed a haircut, she thought, as she ran her hand through it in a soothing rhythm. He noticed nothing but the constant, penetrating pain . . . the scent of her, the softness. . . 

 

Even her bones seemed to bend for him, mould to his arms.  For a few moments it was all soft murmurings with eyes closed and hands moving over fabric and skin. 

 

Before he knew it his head was turned, barely catching a glimpse of her eyes before he kissed her deep and desperately. Their mouths crushed together, their tongues searching for sweetness and finding it.  Their breaths mingled, lungs filling, spreading bits of common oxygen through their bodies.

 

His hands wrapped loosely around her neck as he kissed her and he felt for her pulse with his thumb. Finding it incited him all the more. She was there, animate and warm, her little hand pulling him closer by the collar of his shirt. 

 

His strong hands clutched at her, pulling her closer by her shoulder, her hip, the back of her knee. She was in his lap, hands in his hair again, thighs tensing around his waist. And her moan – oh that voice flowing from her – he could feel it under his fingers, hand still on her throat. His other arm curled around her back and he leaned over to lay her down on the sofa beneath him.

 

Now it was something different yet again. Now it wasn’t comfort or avoidance of pain. Now it was the full-body realization that, for a moment, nothing hurt. And how he pursued that feeling to wring every bit of relief from it, from her. 

 

Their foreplay was nearly violent. His urgency would have deterred her, if not for the incredible tinglings his hands left over her skin. And, at the base of it, all she wanted was to make him feel better. She knew it wouldn’t last, that the relief would be as short-lived as the afternoon, but, oh. His hands traveled her body as he moved inside her.

 

Their cups sat forgotten on his coffee table, and the Saturday afternoon sunlight poured through the windows. By Sunday morning, she thought briefly, everything would have changed. Because now it was more than comfort. The first touch had told her that.

 

They laid, sweat mixing on their chests, breath rushing in each other’s ears.

 

“Allison,” he started, but he was still panting from the exertion, the pleasure, and she interrupted him easily.

 

“It’s okay. I know.”

 

“No, you . . . I . . .”

 

She ran her fingers over his temple, looking back into dark brown eyes.

 

“James. It’s okay.”

 

He sighed back against her, and she tried not to sigh in pleasure at his weight against her chest. 

 

His mind stumbled over it all feebly as the blood tingled in his veins. 

 

Her skin on his, the taste of her tongue and her sweat, the way his hands fit around her throat, her arms, her waist, her thighs – there were some things he felt, unequivocally, that he deserved more than Chase, more than House.

 


End file.
